


Five Sets of Theories About Why the Iron Bull Doesn’t Wear Shirts (And One Time He Just Puts On a Damn Shirt, Already)

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Trans Character, F/F, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Iron Bull being Iron Bull, Iron Bull/Surprise Character, Light Angst, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Not gonna be anything squicky, Protective Iron Bull, Pure Fluff and Fun, Romance, Smut, Surprise Pairing, and SMUT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 21:31:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12690600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Yet another 5 + 1 fic. Seriously, the title says it all. Or does it? :-DThe rest is the tags and as we go, yo. Surprise pairings, with pairings tags and notes to be added with each new chapter. For this first chapter . . . an unexpected confrontation at an impolite hour, followed by the usual: A Nervous Suitor gets a brief Shovel Speech from a Big Angry Dad. And also . . . everything he’s ever wanted from his Wonderful AmazingAmatus.





	Five Sets of Theories About Why the Iron Bull Doesn’t Wear Shirts (And One Time He Just Puts On a Damn Shirt, Already)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [Thunderthighs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunderthighs/gifts), [hotot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/gifts), [thewickedkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewickedkat/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Rare-ish pairs, but no squicky ones, as far as I can tell. The surprise pairings are fun-surprise, not oh-my-god-my-poor-besmirched-soul!-surprise. Fluff, humor, banter, and smut. Almost nothing else, beyond very light angst for seasoning. Nebulously set just before, during, and post-The Winter Palace kerfuffle at Halamshiral. AU in that some folk who are straight in the game, ain’t straight in this fic. And I play a bit fast and loose with the events surrounding the aforementioned kerfuffle.

 

 

“ _Kaffas_ , you great ox! Are you _trying_ to kill me?”

 

As Dorian leans against Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi’s recently shut door, trying to catch his breath and slow the pounding of his heart, he glares up—and up and UP—at The Iron Bull.

 

No one so infernally large should also be so ridiculously silent and stealthy, when he chooses.

 

“Ah, if I was _tryin’_ to kill ya, Dorian, you’d already be sassing your way through the Black City to bitch-slap the Maker and critique Andraste’s fashion-sense.”

 

Dorian huffs and crosses his arms just a tad defensively. “How droll. But since when are _you_ an Andrastian, you heathen?”

 

“Hey, I’m not Orlesian, either, but I can speak the language well enough to get along, get out of trouble, and get myself laid.” The Bull shrugs eloquently, his massive shoulders drawing briefly up before settling and squaring once more. His pale, monocular gaze is far too keen and alert for such a Maker-forsaken time of morning as _very_ pre-dawn. Far too knowing and considering in a way that, for once, has nothing to do with his running commentary on Dorian’s arse or musings about his taste in men.

 

And Dorian finds the sudden change rather jarring, all things considered.

 

Flushing, and tamping down a frisson of dismay, Dorian, as ever, decides to brazen out this interaction like any other with The Bull. As he scans the giant nuisance, he opens his mouth to let fly with the sharpest side of his rather cutting tongue. Unusually, he chooses the very first and most obvious of _many_ of The Bull’s flaws on which to whet his dagger-like criticism. It’s low-hanging fruit, but then, it’s also a very late—or early—hour, and Dorian has yet to close his eyes for longer than blinks.

 

And, of course, to catch breath and equilibrium in the afterglows of seemingly _countless_ blissful, intense releases at his lover’s determined, tireless touch. . . .

 

“Is there some obscure law or custom, of which I’m unaware, against the wearing of shirts by Orlesian-based mercenaries whilst in the realm? Or perhaps you’ve taken pity on the poor launderers who’d have to clean whatever giant sail it’d take to clothe you properly?” Dorian lets his left eyebrow quirk in disdainfully polite curiosity, which doesn’t faze The Bull at all. Either that, or his game-face is a thing of pure wonder. “ _Ah,_ or did you perhaps lose a wager with Warden Blackwall before I joined the Inquisition, and now, must _always_ go about shirtless? Yes, that _must_ be it! Wearing _anything_ less than eight layers of shirt _certainly_ seems like a fate _that one_ would find quite onerous, indeed!”

 

And now, the great brute is not only smirking at Dorian, but _laughing_ , too! As if he’s witnessing some ribald, one-act play!

 

With narrowed eyes and an up-tilted chin, Dorian fights a flush and ignores the knowledge that, for once, he’s himself not exactly pulled-together, of a moment. His clothing is askew and rumpled, much of his visible skin—which is quite a bit, due to his adherence to his country’s fashion mores—is covered in love-bites, and scratches and bruises, and his hair is likely in a state that can only be described as _telling_.

 

Not to mention he smells of sweat, sex, and last night’s wine.

 

As The Bull continues to stare and smirk and chuckle, Dorian’s gaze narrows, so that he can barely see any details of the larger man, but for his huge chest, the eye-blistering pattern of his trousers, and the bloody horns.

 

“You are _utterly_ exasperating,” he finally sighs, sagging a bit against the door and pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s not _terribly_ hungover, but any headache he has tends to increase when dealing with The Bull. “And unlike Cole or, say, Sera, you’re quite aware of that. You just don’t care.”

 

“Nope. Not a single fuck given by me, over my in-your-face charm and style,” The Bull agrees easily, crossing his arms and settling into his stance like a man prepared to stand thus all day. He gives Dorian another once-over, this one still amused but slightly sharp. Dangerous. “Anyway, it’s late—or early—so I’m gonna cut right to the chase. I notice you’ve been in an’ outta _Herald’s Rest_ a lot lately, Pavus. Most especially my lieutenant’s room. Almost nightly, in recent weeks.”

 

Going tense and cold under that pleasant, but now flat regard, Dorian huffs again. Then sniffs. Re-crosses his arms and stares up at The Bull from _down_ his aristocratic nose.

 

“Whatever you’re implying, Bull, I’m certain that it’s none of _your_ business, anyway, you . . . great, Shirtless Wonder!”

 

The Bull’s expression doesn’t change, but the air immediately around them seems to drop precipitously in temperature. Not that Skyhold is the warmest of environs—even for Southern Thedas, it’s a frosty bitch, most of the year—but the chill which seems to emanate strictly from The Bull’s intent gaze _in this moment_ is . . . remarkably discomfiting and intimidating.

 

“Uh-huh,” the mercenary says, just as easily and affably as he does everything. Almost as if in genuine agreement, in fact. As if he’d expected exactly this conversational outcome. But his eye is still keen and cold and threatening. “Lemme put it another, plainer way, for you. What are your intentions toward my lieutenant, Dorian Pavus? And before you answer, bear in mind you _don’t_ wanna make me have to ask a third time.”

 

Flushing, and with a narrowed gaze once more, Dorian draws himself up, crossing his arms lazily to cover a quiet marshaling of his power. Just enough to defend, not damage or decimate.

 

“Look, if there’s something you wish to know about the nature of my . . . association with your lieutenant, Bull, I suggest you ask said lieutenant. If it’s anyone’s place to calm and . . . assuage you, it’s certainly not _mine_.”

 

And how even such a frightening, mountain of a person can manage to exude quiet murder through such a jaunty smile—even with the flat chill radiating from his pale-gray eye—is a matter for the sages and the ages. _Dorian_ has his hands full with not backing away from The Bull, even though he’s never feared the man before now, nor even found him intimidating.

 

Such a _laissez-faire_ attitude seems laughably foolish, right now.

 

“Huh. Alrighty. Guess that means I’m askin’ a third time, after all. Pity.” And The Bull is reaching out for him with one huge hand, not faster than Dorian can follow, but faster than he’s prepared to deal with.

 

Dorian instinctively knows this probably won’t end well for either of them.

 

In this eternal moment, The Bull’s right hand is just brushing the front of Dorian’s favorite silk shirt—the one with the fuschia whorls and gold stitchery—pursuant to grabbing it. _Dorian’s_ left arm has just drawn back with a low-level sort of mage-bolt glowing deep blue in the bowl of his fingers and palm.

 

With a glib sort of gallow’s humor, Dorian’s idly thankful he’s not the sort to carry his staff everywhere, for The Bull’s first grab would surely have been for _that_ , instead, and then he’d have snapped the damned thing in two.

 

And Dorian would’ve, assuming he’d _not_ been next in the snapping, had to go about fashioning or acquiring another one. A bloody wild goose chase, outside of the Imperium, where the making of staffs and their focuses is a deeply respected art and enviable calling . . . not an esoteric taboo, as it is in the savage south.

 

In the split second this flashes through his mind, before The Bull can do more than mar the silken fabric of Dorian’s shirt with callused fingertips, and before Dorian’s arm reaches the apex of drawing back, the door swings open. The lieutenant under discussion is, himself, framed perfectly—irritably—in the doorway.

 

Faster than either grabbing or mage-bolts, both Dorian and The Bull are backing away from each other and flinging their guilty arms behind their backs. They're both wearing huge, disingenuous smiles, but The Bull’s fingers remain clenched, however. Or so Dorian—who’s still holding the cool fire of his unleashed bolt in his palm—assumes.

 

“Hey-hey, Krem-de-menthe! How’s it goin’?” The Bull enthuses at the same time Dorian bows elegantly and beams.

 

“Cremisius! My stalwart paladin! You should be asleep!” he coos and tuts.

 

A very weary-looking, red-eyed Krem, wearing just his cotton undershirt and smalls—but looking capable and solid and _strong . . . delicious_ , as ever—darts his sleepy-suspicious gaze between his Captain and his . . . Dorian. His fine, straight brows lift in question and annoyance, and he stifles a yawn with his square, callused hand.

 

“Whuh? _Chief_? Why’re _you_ here? It’s bloody-late-o’clock! Somethin’ up? Need me to round-up the Chargers?”

 

“Naaaaah! Nothing’s up, Krem-puff! Just, uh, takin’ a late-night stroll and I bumped into Pavus, here, haunting the halls. Fancy that!”

 

“Er, yes! Fancy that!” Dorian agrees when Krem’s awakening gaze and regard land on him. He wiggles his fingers around the chilly tingle of the bolt, clearing his throat briefly to cover the crackle of electric and arcane energies. Then he’s flushing and clearing it once more, this time under Krem’s knowing and unwavering basilisk glare. “Yes, _very fancy_ , indeed, that! The divine hand of sweet Lady Providence once more ushereth in—”

 

Krem groans, rolling his eyes and rubbing the left side of his face. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“Right, so, I’m just gonna say this once, so listen up, both you macho idiots. I’m not a child who needs protecting.” Krem casts a squinty-flinty gaze at The Bull, who holds up his hands as if in surrender, a look of overdone innocence on his brutish face. Dorian snorts smugly, and that gaze swings to him, stern and unamused. “And you . . . right, then. I like you a _lot_. But I _don’t_ like to share. Not my style at all. At least when it comes to _you_. I’m hopin’ you feel the same?”

 

“I—yes. I . . . am very much _not_ a fan of sharing. _Especially_ when it comes to _you_ ,” Dorian agrees, quick and breathless. Then he clears his throat yet again, and fights a blush when The Bull’s surprised gaze swings to him, palpable as moonlight. But Krem is almost _smiling_ , now, crooked and impish and, as always, like a gut-punch. And a heart-punch. And a groin-punch. Dorian barely even notices the mage-bolt winking out in a wisp of dispersed energy.

 

“Good. Then we’re exclusive, you an’ me. Glad that’s settled. It _is_ settled now, right, Chief?” That tired-stern gaze swings back to The Bull who’s glancing between his lieutenant and his lieutenant’s lover, still with an air of surprise. And . . . of relief.

 

“Huh. _Well_. If you say so, Krem-Brule—not that I have _any_ idea what you’re talkin’ about, kiddo. There’s nothin’ goin’ on that even needs to be settled! Just some friendly chitchat between comrades who met entirely by chance. Uhhh, sweet Lady Providence, and all that shit.” The Bull even manufactures a hearty laugh and Dorian rolls his eyes again, muttering.

 

“Riiiiiight.” Krem also rolls his eyes, that almost-smile now a half-smile. “Then I’ll thank you to stop stalking my boyfriend, _Dad_ , and go to bed. _Someone’s_ bed, anyway,” he adds with his right brow quirked knowingly. Bull looks gobsmacked for less than one-third of a moment, but long enough for Dorian to note it, and file it away for later consideration. Or for badgering out of Krem as pillow-chat.

 

“Uh, _anyway_. It _is_ gettin’ pretty late—hoo, boy! The sand-man’s got a whole sack fulla unconscious, with my name all over it—so, I’m gonna turn in. You and me and Grim still have a date to work on those upper wrist-sweeps in the morning, don’t forget.”

 

“I won’t, Chief.” Krem’s voice is pointedly patient, his left eyebrow hoisted like his right. Even tired and a bit pale, he’s breathtaking. Simply . . . _glows_. . . .

 

And Dorian _feels_ that glow, as he always has, like a flush of warmth, at first. Then as a tangible rush of blood to all the usual and relevant locales—head, heart, groin, and every inch of his skin—and a wave of heat that’s tidal and pulling and powerful. It sweeps Dorian and all his pretentiousness and reasons and logic out to a vast sea where, even when he’s unable to stay afloat, the drowning feels quite lovely.

 

At the same time, he’s _not_ in that sea alone. There’s such sweet, protective, yearning, loving presence around him, like arms made of forever, or an infinite blanket. Or the endless-timeless certainty of his own magic. And it simply . . . it _glows._ It is Krem _, and Krem glows_. As if there’s magic of rare and ethereal sort under his very skin, and in place of the marrow in his bones. There’s starlight in his eyes and smile, and coursing through his veins. There’s a sun being born at the core of Krem’s being at every moment, with every breath taken.

 

He. _Glows_.

 

Dorian doesn’t even realize he’s been staring into Krem’s bronze-colored eyes—and that Krem’s been staring right back, wide and unshielded—for quite some time. At least, not until The Bull clears his throat exaggeratedly.

 

“Ah . . . fuck, I’m not _nearly_ drunk enough for this shit. Sleep well, or . . . whatever, Krem. See ya around, Pavus,” The Bull rumbles, sounding uncomfortable and a bit miserable. He’s definitely not looking at either of them, now, mouth twisted as if seeing something far too saccharine and dreadful for his tastes. Dorian sniffs.

 

 _Unromantic clod,_ he thinks, and allows himself a thin, superior smile. “Not if I see you first, rest assured. Or smell you.”

 

“Ah-ha-ha,” The Bull says—rather than laughs—in a flat, gravelly rumble. Then, with one final, warning squint, he strides off down the hall. Not toward, Dorian also notes, his own room.

 

Not at all.

 

Interesting, that. Worth pursuing, even . . . but at a later time.

 

“Seriously, though, Pavus: if my Krem sheds a single tear or angsty sigh over your glittery ass, even the Inquisitor won’t be able to find what’s left of you when _I’m_ done,” The Bull tosses over his huge, right shoulder as he goes. Dorian sniffs, but doesn’t deign to dignify such an uninspired threat— _quite_ uninspired, coming from the man who once idly promised to rip an enemy combatant’s toenails off by taking the “long way” . . . via said combatant’s left nostril—with a response.

 

Frankly, Dorian’s read thank you-cards with more threat and fire. In fact, he’s _written_ thank you-cards with more threat and fire.

 

“Huh,” he huffs, frowning and pondering . . . daring to accept that he has his lover’s father-figure’s seal of non-interference, if not approval. It’s rather more than he expected to _ever_ get, all things considered. That neither he nor Krem need worry about censure from The Bull and, with his example, from the rest of the Chargers, Krem’s de facto _family_ , is thrilling and overwhelming. And it opens a world of possibilities for which Dorian is unprepared. . . .

 

He’s not thought this far ahead. Hadn’t thought there’d be even this much _ahead_ to think to, and that if there were to be, it’d end with The Bull’s disapproval putting Krem off him completely.

 

And, in the end, as ever, Dorian would wind up alone, except for his bottles of the sugary vinaigrette that passes for wine in the south.

 

But now, it seems . . . the way is clear, barring the unforeseen. Barring _Dorian’s_ own flaws and faults bolloxing things six days to Sunday.

 

It’s such an odd and distracting notion, both grounding and disorienting.

 

So, when Krem grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him into a sweet, but hungry _hello_ of a kiss, Dorian is fairly startled. Then even more so, when Krem breaks the kiss to nip at Dorian’s jaw teasingly.

 

“Hullo, again, handsome.”

 

“Hello. Er, so . . . I’m, er, your boyfriend, am I?” Dorian chokes out around wannabe-moans. Krem chuckles.

 

“Or _man-friend_ , if you prefer. I’m not picky regarding titles.”

 

“Well, that’s reassuring. Er.” Dorian’s hands, which had long-since settled on the points of Krem’s hips, clench for a few moments, when Krem’s nips, licks, and gentle suction focus on his ear lobe. “You’re . . . _not_ making it easy to seek my own chambers, Cremisius.”

 

“All part of the plan, that.”

 

“Plan? There was a p-plan?” Cogitating with Krem’s hand on his arse, squeezing so possessively and familiarly, is a dicey bet at best. Dorian swiftly gives it up as a bad job, just based on previous and recent experience.

 

“Mm. The plan where _you_ finally stay the night and _I_ get to ravish you again. Then we fall asleep together for far too short a time. _Then_ . . . I bring you breakfast in bed before I dash off to get pummeled by Grim and the Chief,” Krem elaborates with wry, but warm certainty. His hands are determined as they untuck Dorian’s shirt and inch down the back of his breeches and smalls. And they don’t stop there.

 

“Oh. I— _oh_ , that’s— _Kremmmm._ . . .” Dorian doesn’t put up anything like a fight against Krem’s clever, bold fingers. And it’s a while, indeed, until Krem finally stops his teasing with a chuckle—when Dorian’s hard and moaning and clutching at Krem’s shoulders in his desperation—and draws Dorian back into his room.

 

Once inside, he shuts the door, pinning Dorian against it with firm, but not rough physicality that thrills Dorian to his core. Those dancing-smoldering, pale-bronze eyes are sincere and wondering. They draw the plain truth from Dorian like the tide to the shore.

 

“I . . . don’t wish to impose, or to . . . wear out my welcome with you,” he admits, helpless to do otherwise, with Krem gazing up at him so earnestly. His heart feels as if its squirming its way up his esophagus, to find refuge in his throat. “You’re _not_ obligated to ask me to stay.”

 

Krem blinks, seeming surprised, his fine brows lifting with eloquent, but gentle curiosity.

 

“Dorian, I . . . if I’ve given you reason to think that you could _ever_ be an imposition, or be less than ecstatically welcome—in my bed or my life—then I’m sorry. And clearly not very practiced at this whole being-in-love thing.” When Dorian’s mouth drops open, Krem snorts and smiles wider, his cheeks taking on such a rosy, endearing pink. “Wherever I am—aside from arse-deep in demons and Venatori—I want you to be there with me. Because you make wherever _there_ is . . . better and sweeter. _Obligation’s_ got fuck-all to do with that. I _always_ want you around, full-stop, and that’s the long and short of it. I can’t imagine a single moment when I _wouldn’t_.”

 

Dorian finally picks his jaw up off the floor and shuts his mouth. Though experience should make such a statement suspect—it wouldn’t be the first time a man has said all the things Dorian’s ever wanted to hear, just to maintain a pleasant status quo—the fact that it’s _Krem_ . . . honest, plain-spoken, _genuine_ Krem. . . .

 

That makes it a statement—a declaration—a _promise_ —that’s impossible to disbelieve or ignore.

 

Before he can censor himself, Dorian’s heart—already now lodging in his throat—steals control of his larynx and speaks as plainly as it and he are able to.

 

“You are wonderful. Radiantly and _ridiculously_ beautiful. Funny and sweet and clever . . . _fiercely_ brave and unwaveringly noble. You have more character and _heart_ than anyone I’ve ever known, and you are . . . bright. _Glowing_. You shine like the sun, and every star in the night sky. And _everything_ about you makes my heart beat faster,” Dorian confesses quietly, his face on fire and the aforementioned rabbiting heart beating a wild tattoo as Krem—who’s nearly four inches shorter—grins up at him, boyish and pleased.

 

_Simply happy._

 

 _Huh_ , Dorian thinks, startled and blinking at a sudden epiphany. _Did I . . . am_ I _responsible for this? Is he and has he been glowing because of_ . . . for me?

 

“And everything about _you_ is magic—and I don’t mean the sparkly, mage-y kind, either. From snark to sass. From the feel of your skin to the way you snuffle and snore when you’re shagged-out enough to fall asleep in my arms for a bit. And your _smile_ . . . bloody hell, but your smile.” Krem’s own smile wavers and he sighs. Not in consternation, but with a beaming vulnerability that Dorian’s never seen in any of his previous lovers, let alone the one who’s come to mean more than all the others combined. It’s enough to make the breath Dorian’s already having trouble catching, stutter and hitch on its way in and out. “You’re _far_ too lovely and rare, graceful and refined for a grunt like _me_ , Dorian Pavus. But until you figure that out for y’self . . . I s’pose I’ll keep ya,” he murmurs hopefully, stealing another sweet, but brief kiss.

 

“You can, er, keep me for a bit longer than _that_ , actually,” Dorian murmurs right back, then grins and blushes, and doesn’t try to hide either. Krem’s return grin is heated and yearning. His strong, precise hand is heated and _demanding_ as he fondles Dorian’s balls and prick without preamble or tease.

 

“Y’know,” Krem muses, his sweet smile gone deeply wicked. He determinedly steers them both toward his messy bed. It’s not a far journey. The backs of Dorian’s knees hit the mattress almost immediately and he holds up his hands in surrender. Krem bites his bottom lip, then grabs Dorian’s hips again and pulls them flush against his for intense, but unhurried grinding. The kiss he pulls Dorian in for is thorough, lewd, and deliciously _dirty_. Of course. _Krem is_ —so, Dorian’s discovered, and much to his continuing delight—uncommonly, _uncannily_ good with his mouth. “I may just have to take you up on that, Pavus.”

 

“Hmm . . . you c-certainly should. . . .”

 

Then Krem shoves Dorian down on the bed with a promising chuckle and kneels between his instantly-spread thighs. He glows-glows-glows, his ravenous gaze traveling Dorian’s body as if taking in a great work of art. Yet frequently do they return, with singular zeal and devotion, to Dorian’s eyes.

 

And then, Krem’s firm, familiar body is on Dorian’s, pinning it pleasantly. The weight of him is right and good and necessary. _Beloved_. Bliss. Dorian moans a breathless affirmation of this, clutching at the firm muscles of Krem’s arse, squeezing and kneading and claiming. Demanding more. Krem’s hands are gentle and reverent on Dorian’s left hip and cupping the right side of his face, respectively.

 

“You’re my reason for everything, now,” he whispers, his lips moving teasingly just to the right of Dorian’s mouth. But that’s not the reason Dorian shivers. “You’re my center. The heart of it all.”

 

“Cremisius,” he exhales on the back of a helpless moan. He’s feeling so much he honestly doesn’t know what to say in reply. What to say _at all_ , for once. Words simply aren’t _grand_ enough. Not accurate enough. Certainly not _poetic_ enough.

 

 _They aren’t enough_.

 

So, he simply repeats Krem’s name, nuzzling his lover’s cheek and voicing a soft, given-over cry of need. “ _Please, Amatus_. . . .”

 

Then they’re kissing and undressing each other. Laughing and clutching at each other. Caressing and marking each other.

 

Desperate and uncoordinated and _perfect_ , for each other.

 

And _then_. . . .

 

Not _much_ else gets said before the post-dawn _g’mornin’, love_ , Krem yawns in Dorian’s ear upon waking, hugging Dorian close and tight and _perfect_. And Dorian—who hasn’t slept a wink, and yet feels refreshed, nonetheless—smiles and purrs a _good morning, Amatus_ right back.

 

Then, happily adrift on that warm, enveloping sea, with love glowing in and all around him, he settles contentedly into the arms that continue to protect and keep him.

 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts:
> 
> stitchcasual’s prompt: _ok, then how about something in relation to why bull never wears a shirt lol_
> 
> Sadako’s prompt-in-reply: _him too big_
> 
> Hotot’s prompt: _confetti knit shirt_
> 
> TheWickedKat’s prompt: _Bull is a Shirtless Wonder_
> 
>  
> 
> These titles are getting outta hand. Sorry. Though . . . kinda _not_ sorry. . . .
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumble! Tumble! Cha-cha-cha!](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)


End file.
